Revenge is Sweet

I have refrained from blogging about my wonderful sister's birthing experience because I am trying to respect her privacy. That and the fact that she is currently staying five miles down the road, and at any time she can come over and whoop my ass. I prefer my ass unwhooped so I have avoided this blog fodder. Yesterday I had an epiphany as I was staring at my nephew's hairy little ears. Sister-of-the-Whoop-Ass does not know that I have a blog. I can write any damn thing I want. There are no boundaries to observe, no rules of decorum that I can't break. I am free. (Duh, I knew I didn't share this blog with my family for a reason!)

So I am here to mark the event. Also, it was a very slow weekend. The kids behaved, the hubs wasn't home and I did a jigsaw puzzle all weekend. I never claimed to be a hip, cool mommy. Only a redneck.

A little back story here, if you please. My sis was 17 when I had my first kidlet, ten days shy of my 21st birthday. Sis was in the delivery room with me, and after watching my pain and witnessing my vajayjay stretch out to the size of a small country, she was no longer interested in trying sex out for herself. So the arrival of my daughter was effective birth control for the next three years. My parents were pleased with this. My sister, she still has nightmares.

The following years brought two boys into the family and two more opportunities for her to wax poetically about the state of my bush, how hairy my tree stumps were, and oh yeah, do you think you could trim your monkey toe-nails every once in a while? She was very supportive as I huffed and puffed my way to motherhood. She was a regular comedian, providing unending amusement for my hubs.

So for years I have been looking forward to the day she would walk in the door and announce to the world she, herself, has decided to breed. And I waited seven long years very patiently. Seven years of waiting for my revenge. Seven years of my sister commenting on my parenting style, criticizing my kids clothes, hair, behavior. Seven years of her forgetting my kids birthday parties because she was too busy having a life. Seven years of her wondering how I turned into a slobbering, unhip, radically pathetic soccer mom. And seven years of telling my sis how I wouldn't change a thing, except to have more.

So last fall, when she told me she was giving the world the gift of her offspring, I celebrated. Sure, it is joyous that we will have a new family member and all that crap, but it is much more joyous to know that motherhood is going to bite her on the ass. And I could hardly wait.

Well, God has to be a man, because he denied me the experience of commenting on her bush and her monkey toes as her placenta abrupted in the middle of the night and it was a race to save her and the baby. But in the end, I forgave God, because all ended well. And I knew, that while she didn't have hours to curse, moan and swear while trying to deliver a baby, she would have years ahead of her to understand what it means to be a mother. All with me watching over her shoulder, commenting on how she is morphing into a unhip, radically pathetic, soccer mom.

So my hats off to you, dear nephew. You haven't let your mom sleep more than three hours straight since you made your appearance in her life. You haven't let her forget that her bloody, cracked nipples are yours any time you please. In fact, you have done much more insidious things to her than even I, Redneck mommy, ever dared dream.

Rock on little nephew. I promise to always be at your birthday parties and always bring you a cool gift. One your mother would never buy for you.